It's nearly the weekend, so it's high time for a little fun, don't you think? Every Friday we're posting an excerpt from one of Lethe's erotica anthologies, and this week we're featuring one our classic releases from the Bear Bones Books imprint, Bearotica, edited by R. Jackson. Read the story 'Four Times In Room 230' by Daniel M. Jaffe. (And if you're a fan of Jaffe, take a look at yesterday's post for another of his stories from his collection Jewish Gentle.) I glimpse you in the maze, rounding a corner, your hairy chest disappearing behind a black wall, your ponytail. A beard? I hear you from around the corner, from behind the wall, your voice soft and firm, telling another man to turn around. I eavesdrop for moans. Others walk by me, muscular men, lean men, who size me up in the shadows of Chicago’s baths, who notice the hair coating my chest, my pudgy waist; they sashay quickly past. I hear a sigh from around the corner. You or the other? I reach beneath my white towel, excitement growing at men’s sounds. I think to steal a glance around the corner, but you might want privacy in this public space; some do; I don’t wish to annoy because, even though another occupies your maze-lair now, later the chance could be mine. Whether or not we actually meet, I decide, you will be the memory I leave with tonight, the grizzly wraith I’ll conjure when, later at the hotel, I telephone my lover back in Boston, when I make him playfully envious of my night’s harmless romp. From behind your corner steps a man, tall and hairless and thin. Oh. Is that what you want — smooth and lanky? I haven’t a chance. Then you emerge, tall and thick, hair covering your full chest, your solid belly, brown hair tangling down somewhere behind the towel. And yes, a beard, yes. You walk, notice me, stop. You stop still. Stock still, two arm-lengths away. Your eyes, I see your eyes seeing mine and you stand there still. Maybe? Maybe I should — ? Or maybe you’ll slap my hand away, mock with a laugh? Hell, I’ll take the chance. I step forward, reach out, graze the back of my knuckles against your chest and . . . you move toward me. I splay out my hands, fill each with hairy flesh, your nipples hard against my palms, your hair entwining my fingers, and you reach out to me, stroke my upper arms, reach around me, pull me close, bend your head down to nuzzle the hair swirling on my left shoulder. Your Fuller Brush beard against my shoulder, my left, then my right. “Turn around,” you whisper and I, usually resistant to command, obey without question. You reach your arms, your hands around me; my nipples between your thick fingertips. Ahh. Gentle nuzzling, beard against back of neck, tongue in my right ear, my left, and someone else, some unknown hand reaches out in the darkness to grab at my hard-on meant for you, he squeezes — did you know? Your arms around me, your thick arms, your arms pulling me close, you pressing against me, all of you against me, around me. A whispered invitation to your room. I disengage from the anonymous groping hand to follow you, watching as you lumber just a bit side to side and stomp, your feet thumping against the indoor-outdoor carpeting, your calf muscles flexing, your butt now tightening, now releasing beneath the white towel, fine damp hair filming your back, light brown hair to match the ponytail half-matted with sweat. A cold, late December night, but Room 230 is warm. Inside, towels off, I reach up to embrace you. You look down at me. Your thick mustache against mine, your wet lips covered in soft bristle, your tongue reaching to soothe. You want to know — do I like massage? Is oil okay? For you, this Yogi Bear with blue eyes and gentle touch, I lie face down, my eyes blinded by pillow. So unlike me, usually wary and guarded and closed, to lie on my belly for a stranger, to lie vulnerable, unable to see an approach from behind. You kneel over me, straddle me, your heavy cock and balls brush my ass, I hear the rub of your hands together warming the oil. You begin with my shoulders. Ahh. Gentle and firm, strong, deep, ahh. Shoulders and back and butt, your fingertips along my butt, gently inside and — oh oh oh, tongue replacing fingers, beard against my ass, tongue deep, oh oh oh — then your hands on my thighs, on calves, on feet. You lift my feet one at a time, take charge of my feet as if to assure yourself I won’t run away, you fill your mouth with my feet, toe by toe, your tongue in between, your beard, the bristles. Violin tremors. Chocolate ice cream chills. Your mouth between my toes then up my calves, your tongue, again my butt — oh God — and up, your tongue along my spine, your beard, you take my arms between your hands, my thin hairy arms between your thick fingers and you . . . do something . . . some rubbing or squeezing or kneading, I can’t even tell, but my fingertips feel ready to ejaculate blood. “Are you relaxed?” I moan. You roll me onto my side then, I open my eyes to see you lie down facing me on the narrow cot. I want to feel all of you, your body, I nuzzle your eyes and your beard and taste your massage-oil lips, your tongue with the flavor of my butt, and I clutch your face, probe my tongue deep into your mouth so deep it drags out half my chest, I fill you with me and you squeak, a little river-otter squeak of delight, your blue eyes squeezed shut at the force of my tongue against yours, my hands filled with your beard, me shifting us both so I lie on top of you, rubbing hairy chest against chest, kissing you, not pulling away, not letting you pull away, breathing your breath, filling your lungs with mine, your arms around me, your hands grabbing my ass, our cocks against each other and you, you whimpering sweet surrender and trumpeting conquest: “Fuck me.” A moment of preparation — me kneeling, sliding it on, lifting your heavy legs to my shoulders — slipping in. I tell myself I should focus on the tingles, the sensations of your hands on my chest, my cock inside you, but it’s your face that fills my mind, your beautiful face, your hair, your beard, your chest, your eyes again squeezing shut, your head snapping right and left, your moans, your groans loud now from the gut, your growls, you not caring who in other rooms, in the hall, on upper floors might hear your howls and roars and we are two bears rutting a winter summons and challenge to spring. Your sounds wane to whispers, I slow, your eyes open and you tell me I’m the most this in the world, the best that, and again I gently pound my belly against the backs of your thighs, filling you as deeply as I can, slowly now. I thrust. Your eyes shut. Again the moans. And again the roars and you gasp, motion me to stop. You’ve come twice, without even touching yourself. Your thighs down, I lie on top of you, satisfied that you’re satisfied; you look away and say the most romantic phrase I’ve ever heard: that if you stare into my eyes, you will come yet again. We shift so I’m on my back, you’re on your side, your head resting on my chest, your hand playing with my gray hairs among the brown, and I hear that same joy whimper as before, I hug you closer. “I’d fall asleep on your chest,” you say, “but I’d lose my heart.” This is a statement, but also perhaps a question, a tentative request for permission. I so want you to fall asleep against my chest, to lose your heart to me, but I’ve no right, holding, as I do, the heart of another back home who holds my own. What is this need to forage and hunt when the larder is full? So we talk. You of your home in Seattle, me of home in Boston, his home and mine. You whimper again, perhaps in residual joy, perhaps in regret. I’m sorry and I’m glad. You’re a cellist, you explain, come here to Chicago to audition for the symphony the day after next; I’m here for a conference of literature professors, will leave town tomorrow. A chance encounter. You say: if your relationship ever ends, not that I hope it will, but if . . . Sweet sweet sweet. What is this capacity to share so with a stranger, to feel tenderness toward a furry wanderer amid shadows? To meet and within minutes to trust, to place ourselves in each others’ hands, to trust our bodies, our eyes, to trust the perimeters of our hearts? We kiss again, you make me hard. You caress my balls as we kiss and I suck in your tongue, vacuum your mouth while your finger enters my ass, index finger or thumb or both or more. Inside me, I feel you inside me. I pump my cock with my hand and instead of the usual quick surge to Everest, I rise slowly to foothills, then higher amid brambles, your fingers inside me, your hand, maybe your arm, your shoulder, your head climbing in while I rise to a ledge, hear moans, my moans, feel your ponytail tease the tip of my cock, and my back arches for you to crawl up inside me, pound me, fill me up and up and up until peak after peak after peak. I’m in a swirl of darkness, feel only the heaving of my chest, then you pull out your hand, I hear you stroke, you come onto me. I gasp, breathe deep, sit up, sit up straight, try to clear my head. I stare into your blinking eyes, pull your head down to my lap, the back of your head on my lap, your face looking up at mine, your lips, I graze your bearded lips, our eyes lock, you whisper, “I see your heart behind your eyes,” you reach down to yourself and . . . a fourth time. You are amazed at your fourth time. I am amazed at your fourth time. To come four times, you are not bear but lion. To be able to inspire such vigor, I feel myself lion as well. More whispers and caresses, nipple tweaks and hugs, sincere declarations of how special and what a fantasy. Completely sincere. Sighs. Exchange of addresses on matchbooks. A final kiss. Final for now, we say, knowing it’s likely final for always. I leave Room 230, shower and dress, bundle up, leave the bathhouse, take a taxi through the windy cold to my hotel. I could have invited you to the hotel with me, could have tempted you to count beyond four, could have tried for a record of my own. But if I had, if I had made you risk losing your heart, if I had risked losing my own, if I had lost it, how could I then telephone my lover, as I’m now about to do, and make him smile at an honest, lusty tale? All Lethe Press books, including Bearotica, are available through the major online retailers and booksellers. You can also support the press and authors by buying directly from our website.
0 Comments
Every Thursday, Lethe takes a look through its vaults for its proudest releases. This week, to coincide with the time of year, it's Jewish Gentle and Other Stories of Gay-Jewish Living by Daniel M. Jaffe, in which the author explores a multitude of aspects of gay-Jewish life. From the collection, Lethe presents the story 'Telling Dad', which you can either listen to, or read below: “Sorry to hear about your Dad. You Jews don’t got wakes, do you?” “No.” The plain white sheet fastens itself too snugly around my neck; moist thighs stick to the leather seat; shorts ride up in a gradual, subtle attempt to constrict my crotch. The warm, slow-moving air wandering in through the open window sports the familiar fragrance of shaving cream, hair tonic and Pat’s Old Spice cologne. So very Dorchester. Old Boston. “You don’t get to see him again?” “Just the pine box.” “Strange. Live and let live. What do you want done to you?” “A trim.” Some long, some short black combs cluster in the lavender water of the glass Brylcreem jar. On a dusty ledge beside the cash register, a few pieces of Bazooka bubble gum soften in the sunlight. In their red, white, and blue wrappers they lie scattered like rejected offspring of the red, white and blue barber pole twirling outside. The crowd roars on the old television reflected in front of me. The unframed tube still sits on that rickety platform in a corner behind the barber chairs. Growing up, I watched baseball only through Pat’s mirrored wall. “The Sox are doing okay this season. At least they’re keeping their socks up.” The first time I heard that stale attempt at humor, I giggled. Dad and I were both excited at my first barbershop haircut. “You’re a big boy of five, now. Time for a real man’s haircut. Just like Daddy.” Dad hugged me on his lap. During the scissoring, he read to me from Tales of the Old West while I studied pictures of the cowboys. The sheriff looked like Dad—stern with a thin face, trim mustache, thick eyebrows, bushy sideburns. Then, as we sang “Hinei Ma Tov,” my favorite Hebrew song, I hardly minded the buzz of the electric razor. “Remember that time your Dad bet me on the World Series?” I smile for the first time since the interruption of last night’s kiss. Unable to ignore the shrill ring of the telephone any longer, I retrieved my tongue, smiled apologetically, and picked up the receiver. “…Okay, Mom, I’ll come home…. I know he didn’t mean to…. Okay.” “Remember?” Pat repeated. “Only time I ever seen your Dad bet. He won, too. Ooops. Sorry for the nick.” That sting. The same sting I felt sitting in this chair six years ago. Having just arrived back in Boston that morning for Passover, I decided to get a trim before Dad finished work. I was proud of those long, thick, Samsonesque locks, but a trim would make it easier on Dad, and on me. For the most part, the seder was typical. Dad didn’t like the way I chanted the kiddush, the blessing over the wine. We engaged in our annual argument over the virtues of Sephardic versus Ashkenazic pronunciation of the Hebrew prayers. I registered my standard complaint that many of the ceremonial readings during dinner had nothing to do with liberation from bondage; Dad defended the unfathomable symbols of “the way it’s been done for generations.” The only unusual aspect of the evening was Dad’s refusal to leave my hair alone. “Never when I was a boy did we wear such long hair.” Tug. “Only the maidlach, the girls.” Pull. “You should get it cut.” Yank. I was not in a mood to expose my privacy then. The next morning in synagogue, Dad wore Grandpa’s prayer shawl, shockling—swaying back and forth—as he prayed, the way his father used to. Even though we prayed in a different synagogue than the one Dad had attended as a boy, he still sat in the back, on the left, just where he and Grandpa used to sit in their synagogue. When the new cantor introduced an Israeli melody for one of the traditional prayers of the service, Dad refused to learn the tune. He nearly stormed out in a huff when a woman stood before the congregation and opened the ark where the Torah resides. “It’s just a small change, Dad. Women are getting rights. Times are different.” “Some things we don’t change. A little change here, a little change there…soon you don’t recognize anything anymore!” He agreed to stay through the service so that he could complain to the rabbi afterwards. That was not the time to tell him. Lunch was on the table when we walked in. He grumbled through the potted meatballs and potatoes. “What’s this?” he asked Mom, pointing to a chocolate-iced cake. “It’s all right. No milk. It’s parve.” “Pesachdik?” “Of course! Thirty-five years I’ve been making Passover. I know which foods are allowed. It’s a new mix. Manischewitz.” Dad ate applesauce. That was not the time, either. I waited until after his nap. We went for a walk. “Nice day.” “Yes.” “You sure surprised me when you bet on the World Series. It was a great Series, wasn’t it?” “That was months ago, half a year. Why now?” “No reason.” He smiled and clasped my shoulder. “You think your father doesn’t know his own son anymore? Something’s troubling you, right? You want to talk about something, I can tell.” I nodded. “I knew it. You can live far away at college, but you’re still my boy. So tell me. A difficult course?… A mean teacher?… A girl maybe?… You turn red. That’s it, isn’t it? I told your mother when you started college that soon you’d be bringing home a maideleh to make your mother jealous. You have a little girlfriend and you want to invite her home? No prob—” He stopped and raised his hand to the side of his mouth, hiding his words from no one in particular. “She’s Jewish?” “Dad, there’s no girl.” “No? So what’s the problem?” “It’s not a problem, Dad. It’s….” Blurting was the only possible way: “There’ll never be a girl.” I explained as best I could. I had been rehearsing this speech for years. “First your hair, now this. It’s not our way. It’s goyish. I never heard of anyone Jewish this way.” “Dad, listen—” “You’re right, that was a good World Series game. I always liked the Sox.” He mumbled, “Only once I bet. Six months later, look what happens.” “Dad, we’re not talking about the World Series.” “That’s all we’re talking about. It’s the most important thing in baseball. That’s all you talked about today. I heard nothing else! Only baseball.” Pat finishes dabbing the nick with an alcohol-soaked cloth. “Baseball’s what all the customers want to watch. It’s part of what a barbershop’s all about. Some kids say I should change it to a ‘hair salon,’ nix the TV, and hire a woman barber. Nothing wrong with that, I guess. Just different. Can’t get used to it.” For six years, Dad refused to discuss the issue. I knew what was going through his head, all the religious prohibitions and condemnations. I tried to talk to him about it, but whenever I did, he left the room. So I wrote him letters explaining that I was violating only a minor proscription, not a major commandment, certainly not one of the Big Ten. The rule was put there to keep the ancient Hebrews separate from local peoples so they wouldn’t lose their identity. I’m secure in my identity. I keep kosher, go to synagogue, pray. He never responded. It’s not that he ever stopped discussing baseball with me or refused to talk about academics or forgot to remind me of an upcoming holiday. He just never commented on the important issue. But he always tugged my hair. With a talcumed rag, Pat dusts off my face; flecks of hair drop to the floor like so many bomblets. “There you go. Looks neat, but it’s still awfully long. I mean, for a funeral. Sure you don’t want me to cut it shorter?” “Yeah.” “Your Dad never could get used to it. He told me once that he thought you looked okay with it, just that it was different from his picture of you. It’s not the way he knew you when you were a kid. That’s why he razzed you.” Finally, a breeze blows through the open window. The sheet gently billows, thighs slide a bit, shorts stop their climb. I twist the barber chair to face the TV, and I watch the baseball game for a few moments. “Okay, Pat, maybe just a little shorter.” All Lethe Press books, including Jewish Gentle, are available through the major online retailers and booksellers. You can also support the press and authors by buying directly from our website. Or, if audiobooks are more your thing, you can buy Jewish Gentle at amazon or Audible.
This week we put our five questions (and a sneaky extra one) to Heiresses of Russ 2015 co-editor Jean Roberta.
Heiresses of Russ 2015 is out now from Lethe Press. Check it out.
This month at Lethe sees the release of Heiresses of Russ 2015, edited by Jean Roberta and Steve Berman. Showcasing the finest lesbian speculative fiction stories of the previous year, this collection features authors such as Seanen McGuire, Nicola Griffith, Annabeth Leong, Ken Liu, and more. To buy the book, or see the full table of contents, follow this link. Yesterday, we posted an excerpt from 'Because I Prayed This Word' by Alex Dally MacFarlane. Today, you can read an excerpt from 'Skeletons' by Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam. “Who’s gonna watch the skeletons?” I ask. We’re about to go camping. Cathryn’s undressing before the closet in her garage apartment. I’m trying not to watch, though she wants me to. Instead I peer into her glass terrarium where the skeletons live, three of them: a dwarf T-Rex and two dwarf stegosauruses. The T-Rex stands atop a lonely pile of rocks. “I was going to leave them extra food. You think that’s okay?” Cathryn rummages through the clothes pile on the floor, such beautiful chaos. I stare at her reflection in the glass. Her bra, lacy and black, makes me want to glimpse what’s underneath, even though I have before, five times. “I guess so,” I say. I look back at the T-Rex. His name, Cathryn tells me, is Ronald. The steggos are called Thelma and Louise; she thinks she’s being ironic. The T-Rex’s bones are so small I’m sure that if I picked him up I would break him. His eyes are tiny as sequins and suspended in empty sockets. He wails like a cat in heat. “I think something’s wrong,” I say. “He’s just hungry, Emma. Feed him. Food’s next to the cage.” I open the yellow bottle of skeleton food; the musty smell makes me cough. The bottle is full of squiggling little worms. I pour some into the terrarium. Ronald clambers down the rocks. He dips his jaw into the worm pile and scoops them into his mouth, swallows. I can see them travel down his throat and into his empty bone stomach where they wriggle inside him. Cathryn clears her throat. She stands before me with her hands on her hips, wearing tight blue jeans and a bumblebee-striped halter top. She’s dressed for clubbing, not camping, and I realize that the kind of camping we’ll be doing won’t require the hiking shoes or the toilet paper I brought. I tell her she looks great. She does. I look back at the tank. The T-Rex peers up at me. “Let me free,” he whispers. His voice is like an echo. I can’t. We’re going camping. In the shallow forest we set up our tent. The land has been cleared for people like us, who want to be in nature but not too far in. Our tent is a miniature house. The box says it will fit twenty people, but we’ve only got five. It has French doors that fold down and collapsible walls to give everyone a sense of privacy, but through the first night I hear Cathryn and Anne, the girlfriend she brought along, their heavy breath and little moans. They make the whole tent sweat. The site is close to the river, but not too close. At night we cannot hear the current. The bathroom is just around the corner, and there’s a leaky water faucet next to where we parked the car, ten feet from the tent. Our friend Wendi brought a portable mini fridge and a fan; they run on batteries, but the fridge eats two an hour so we have to run to the store once a day and buy at least twelve packages of four. We make a game of it. In some ways the drive is the best part of the trip, mostly because Cathryn is the one with the car, and she’s asked me to go with her each time. We roll the windows down. She talks about the new girl, Anne, how they’ve just met but already spend nearly every night together. Every word she says feels like a secret between us. I don’t want to hear about Anne, but I don’t not want to hear about her either, because I want to know if she’s better than me. I want to know when we’ll share a bed again. I try to deduce the information from the cutesy story of how they met at the campus coffee shop, but I can’t, because Cathryn has always been unpredictable, mysterious. With her unflinching face she reveals nothing. Every time she asks me to get in the car with her, I do. The nearest trash can is two whole miles from our site, so we’re forced to rough it in that regard at least, dumping our food scraps into a plastic bag. Most of what we brought is food. Peanut butter, bread, baked beans in a can and hot dogs with mustard, two bottles of cheap red wine and a plastic handle of rum. Our broke friend Mike does the cooking. It’s his way of paying us back. He also does the majority of the drinking. He’s brought his set of oils, and his paint-stained hands dye whatever he touches. Each hot dog bun has a blue handprint, and by the time dinner’s finished the rum bottle is covered in fingerprints. The second night Wendi builds a fire and we sit around the flames. The smoke follows Cathryn. No matter where she sits, the wind moves in her direction. Finally she settles in one spot, lights a cigarette, and lets the smoke clog her eyes. We play a drinking game, Never Have I Ever. “Never have I ever been to Disney World,” I say. Cathryn and Wendi put down a finger; they went there once together. “Never have I ever done acid,” Wendi says. The rest of us admit defeat. “Never have I ever been in love,” Cathryn says. No one puts down a finger; no one is sure enough to commit to that. We all four of us look at Cathryn through the smoke. Her hair is up, the skin of her neck glistening with sweat. That we all want her is common knowledge; we can’t help ourselves. This is what holds our friendships together, the flame to which we are helpless as moths. That night, as we sleep, trees rustle, and the fallen branches on the ground crack like knuckles. When I leave the tent early in the morning to walk to the restroom, I find the contents of our trash bag scattered, the bottom ripped. By the river I spot a leopard, its white fur stretched so tight the bones poke through. In the disappearing moonlight I nearly see the heart pumping in its chest. It’s looking right at me, and I stand and stare until the sun creeps up and the leopard, its fur no longer see-through, bounds into the brush. Back at the campsite a crowd is gathered around the dying embers of last night’s fire. A dodo skeleton hops around the fire pit. One of the bones from its foot is missing. Without the feathers it looks just like any other bird. We only know it’s a dodo from its fat chest, its dodo beak. Plus it tells us what it is when we ask it. Cathryn shoos the bird. “Go, fly away.” “Dodos don’t fly,” it says, lifting a bone wing. The invisible joints crack. “I’m stuck. All Lethe Press books, including Woof, are available through the major online retailers and booksellers. You can also support the press and authors by buying directly from our website
This month at Lethe sees the release of Heiresses of Russ 2015, edited by Jean Roberta and Steve Berman. Showcasing the finest lesbian speculative fiction stories of the previous year, this collection features authors such as Seanen McGuire, Nicola Griffith, Annabeth Leong, Ken Liu, and more. Read an excerpt from 'Because I Prayed This Word' by Alex Dally MacFarlane: The city appears between the pillars of the cloisters like a dream of an embroidered wall-hanging: more gold thread than is ever available for the Sisters, more precisely tidy stitches than Perrette will ever manage. For a moment she sees it on the edges of her vision, and though she thinks of telling her Sisters, she does not. She assumes it is the fast. She walks on. She keeps seeing it. Alongside her Sisters she bends over vellum, copying. Barbe, whose freckles are like the stars above the monastery, is at her left. Ragonde, who snores while Perrette and Barbe work, is at her right. They have each been chosen for their skills: Perrette for her precise letters, Barbe for her paintings that face Perrette’s copied words, and Ragonde, who sparingly applies the gold, trusted because of her seniority with that most precious adornment. They copy Lives of the Desert Fathers. Perrette admires the strength required to hold faith in the desert. Barbe paints the female saints. When the city appears at the window, Perrette almost spills ink on her work. “Are you well?” Barbe asks. Ragonde snores. “Yes.” Perrette carefully moves the ink further from the vellum and glances up. The city is no longer there. “Did you see anything at the window?” “No. But I was looking at her,” Barbe says, indicating the saint under her hands, with long dark hair flowing like a hymn. Though an ascetic, old and poor in the text, Barbe has painted her young, colourfully garbed, beautiful. I saw a city, Perrette longs to say. The most incredible city. I want to step under its gleaming gold roofs and I want you to step alongside me-- Perrette silences her thoughts and returns to her work, glancing only occasionally at the window, at Barbe’s freckles, at the saints she paints. That night, she tries to imagine the city, but cannot put people in its streets. That dawn, hurrying late to prayer, she sees it again: a door opening in the courtyard beside the pear trees. Words curl around its hinges like vines. Barely breathing, she steps closer. Latin, but no Latin words she has ever copied: spectat et audit dulce ridentem, misero quod omnes ripit sensus mihi She touches them. The door is real. She steps through. I first heard Sappho. A soft name. A sigh. I’d have forgotten it, except it wasn’t a name I’d ever heard, said by one of my da’s customers: come to check the quality of our vellum. Sappho, Sappho. I turned it over like a dandelion seed head. Would’ve discarded it, if he hadn’t then said she was the finest woman poet ever lived. I never knew much of what went on our vellum. I knew it was words. I knew it was beautiful and mostly God and men. I imagined Sappho slipping into a book, leaving gilt verses between the church songs. I worked—my hands reeked of vellum, I couldn’t ever scrub it off, dead cows stretched flat and clean and waiting for words I didn’t think I’d ever learn to read—I imagined the vellum going from my hands to hers, all perfumed and soft. I imagined a lot of stupid things while I was working. I didn’t ever do a good job of imagining what Sappho actually wrote. All Lethe Press books, including Heiresses of Russ 2015, are available through the major online retailers and booksellers. You can also support the press and authors by buying directly from our website.
Welcome to the first of Lethe's weekly Giveaway Mondays.
Firstly, we've got three ebooks of Ice On Fire by Dan Stone to give away. The sequel to the Lambda Award Finalist The Rest Of Our Lives returns to the enchanting romance between elemental witches Colm and Aidan. To win, just like our facebook page and share the competition image, or follow and RT us on twitter @lethepress. Secondly, if you buy the paperback of Ice on Fire today, you'll also receive a copy of the first volume, The Rest Of Our Lives for free. If you haven't discovered the series yet, now's the time. Follow this link to buy on our website. Every week, Lethe posts a list of ten books on a theme compiled from suggestions by our readers, editors and authors. The list is neither exhaustive, didactic, or ranked, and while there are undoubtedly countless books you've missed off, perhaps you'll find a few new ones here to discover for yourself. Coming out - whether smooth or traumatic - is a massive turning point in someone's life, and there's nothing like a good story (be it film, tv or literature) to help you through it. A surprisingly common question we're asked for recommendations is 'my teenage niece/nephew/friend/acquaintance has just come out - what would you recommend they read?', and with the holidays fast approaching, a gift idea might be just the thing. This week's list: the best gay YA books for someone who just came out. This Book Is Gay by James Dawson Pretty much 2015 - and any year's - essential reading for the recently out young adult, This Book Is Gay is frank, informative, funny, unpatronising and hopeful. Plus it's already in some hot water with right-wing parent groups, and that's practically a stamp of approval in our book... And while you're at it, you could do worse than checking out the rest of Dawson's catalogue of work... Boy Meets Boy / How They Met & Other Stories by David Levithan You couldn't have a list aimed at QUILTBAG teen readers without having David Levithan on it. Boy Meets Boy is the gold standard of the genre, set in an ideal world where gay relationships are universally accepted and the star quarterback is also a drag queen. But for our money, How They Met - a diverse selection of short stories featuring LGBT protagonists, is our favourite. FROM THE LETHE VAULTS: Red Caps by Steve Berman Steve Berman's Vintage frequents many a list of best gay books, and Red Caps continues his sterling storytelling of queer youth with a collection of fantastical short stories all of which feature gay protagonists. Talking about the collection, he says he set out to create stories in which the sexuality of the character is both front-and-centre but a non-issue in the story, and there are precious few other YA collections that treat the subject as such. Plus, the collection is beautifully illustrated throughout. Buy Red Caps here. The Geography Club by Brent Hartinger Adult authors writing high school with any sense of authenticity is notoriously difficult (we're looking at you, Glee) but The Geography Club is an early cornerstone of of LGBT YA, telling the story of a school's first LGBT club led by Russel Middlebrook (the protagonist of a continuing series of novels.) We've got all the essential ingredients: the uniting of the outsiders for survival and acceptance, the strengthening and testing of friendships and the personal journey of self-discovery and sexuality. Plus, there was a 2014 movie featuring a whole host of familiar faces. Speaking Out! edited by Steve Berman Speaking Out came out at roughly the same time as Dan Savages It Gets Better campaign...and unfortunately did not receive a tenth of the attention it deserved. These are stories about LGBT and Q teens--inspiring stories of overcoming adversity (against intolerance and homophobia). FROM THE LETHE VAULTS: Cub by Jeff Mann It's easy to imagine that the coming-out story of every young adult revolves around the usual high-school stories and settings, but there are many more stories in the world to be told. Just listen to Out In Print's review: "It's a book for those boys out there who have discovered that they are different from many of their friends, but who also feel the division within the subculture they thought they could identify with. Cub lets them feel there's room at the table for them." And, as OutSmart says, "Finally, a young-adult romance that features Bears and their friends." Buy Cub here. Hear Us Out! by Nancy Garden At its best, coming out enters you into a community of LGBT people ready to give support and joy, and like any community, it has its stories -- stories about the long history of the community and the people that have gone before you. Hear Us Out! tells the story of each decade from the 1950s, describing exactly what it has meant to be young and gay in America in the last sixty years. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz A break-out YA novel of 2014, Saenz's novel tells the story of two unlikely friends, Aristotle - an angry teen with a brother in prison - and Dante - a know-it-all who has an unusual way of looking at the world. The novel is lauded by critics who praise it for everything from it's "tender, honest exploration of identity and sexuality", to its "authentic teen and Latino dialogue" and its core friendship that "widens and twists like a river, revealing truths about how hard love is, how family supports us, and how painfully deep you have to go to uncover an authentic self." How Beautiful The Ordinary edited by Michael Cart The central question of our adolescence is always the defining of our own identities, and this collection tackles that question head on, with twelve stories from a range of well-known writers - including David Levithan, Gregory Maguire, Margo Lanagan, Emma Donoghue and Ariel Schrag - that spin a diverse set of stories taking in the LGBT experience with subtlety and vigour. FROM THE LETHE VAULTS: The Mariposa Club by Rigoberto Gonzalez One of Lethe's missions is to ensure good gay books are revived; Rigoberto's wonderful YA novel about queer Latino friends at high school who band together to support one another as the Mariposa Club was published by Alyson (and featured all white boys on the cover). The largest growing ethnic population in the U.S. is Latino--thankfully this book is perfect for those embracing diversity. Buy The Mariposa Club here. The 'coming of age' story is an ever-popular genre, and if we're in the world of gay literature, what that usually translates to is a 'coming out' story. It's something that the overwhelming majority of us have had to do, and therefore the experiences ring true when we find them in literature. But there are those who argue that both gay rights and the gay experience has moved on, and that it's time we told different types of stories about gay characters. Some might even suggests that a coming out story is no longer interesting, or relevant, or even necessary.
What do you think? Do we still need 'coming out' stories? Comment here, or on our facebook page, or tweet us @lethepress and let us know. It's nearly the weekend, so it's high time for a little fun, don't you think? Every Friday we're posting an excerpt from one of Lethe's erotica anthologies, and this week we're featuring our latest, Thunder of War, Lightning of Desire: Lesbian Historical Military Erotica from the multi-talented Sacchi Green. Read an excerpt from the story 'Moment of Peace' by Jove Belle: 1945: WWII: South Pacific Rose set the last of the dinner dishes in the industrial stainless steel sink as the opening strains of the show filtered through the canvas walls of the kitchen. The suds had long since given up and the water was tepid at best, and she wondered for the hundredth time why she thought joining the WACs was a good idea. She was doing the same exact thing she’d done all her life, cleaning up after messy men who never thought to say thank you. Only now, instead of her father and brothers, she did it for the hundreds of soldiers on an island she hadn’t known existed until she received her orders. So much for weapons maintenance, the job Uncle Sam promised her. Sure, she’d been shown where that job was done just before they told her there was no need and sent her to the kitchen. “Oh, Rose, it’s starting. Hurry.” Alma was a petite woman, slight in stature, and easily overlooked. But her mind was sharp. Sharp enough to get her assigned to communications, but not sharp enough to keep from being reassigned to the kitchen along with Rose. Still, Rose admired the way she paid attention and caught details others missed. Like how they were constantly coming up short on forks. Alma was the one who discovered that a few of the soldiers were trading them with the locals for handmade trinkets to send home. Rose hadn’t even considered that. She was frustrated by the loss and annoyed that her ass kept getting chewed over it but never once did she think it was intentional. Who steals forks for God’s sake? “We’re almost done.” Rose rinsed a plate and handed it to Alma. “Only a few more left.” “I don’t want to miss anything important.” Alma’s dishtowel was more wet than dry at this point, and all she managed to do was push the moisture around on the plate without actually drying anything. Rose didn’t care. She’d signed up to serve her country during the war, but she hadn’t thought that would literally mean serve them breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “They’ll start with the news reels.” Rose finished the last plate and drained the water in the sink. She knew everything she needed to know. The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, the United States of America jumped into the Second World War, and Rose watched her brothers march away while their neighbors cheered. Two years later, after the speedy victory they’d been promised hadn’t happened, the army changed their opinion about women serving during wartime. Nobody cheered when she signed up, but she figured that was fine. She still wanted to do her part, and the victory garden behind her house wasn’t enough. “Oh, I love the news.” Alma sighed in a way that shouldn’t have made Rose’s stomach tighten, but it did. She gazed at Alma, finally done with the work and able to enjoy the reason she’d volunteered to stay late and let the others go back to the barracks early. Alma’s eyes took on a faraway look as though she were remembering a more romantic place and time. That’s what Alma did. She romanticized everything, saw things with little hearts drawn around the outside edges. Still, no matter how many times she saw Alma with that dreamy little smile, Rose’s breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t stop the grin from climbing up her face. “Here.” Rose reached for the last dish and the towel. Her fingers brushed against Alma’s and the charged thrill made her pause in motion. She stopped, hand on the plate, barely touching Alma, and completely unable to remember how to breathe. They stared at each other for several long moments and the dreamy look in Alma’s eyes was replaced by something darker, something needier. Instead of a tingle, this time Rose’s stomach clenched. Alma broke contact first. “Yes…um…right.” She drew her hands away and held them behind her back. She looked anywhere but at Rose. Rose finished with the plate, tossed the towel into the laundry bag, and picked up the stack of plates. It was just heavy enough to make her biceps flex and the small intake of breath told her that Alma noticed, too. Rose wore her uniform with the shirt sleeves rolled up. She’d started that as soon as she’d connected Alma’s soft sighs to the movement of her arms. Rose tightened her grip to accentuate her muscles, and lifted the plates onto the shelf. When she finished, she dusted her hands together, then turned to Alma. “All done. You ready to go?” Alma sucked in her bottom lip and held it between her teeth for a moment. It was such a subconsciously sexy thing that Rose gripped the edge of the sink to hold herself in place. If Alma knew she was doing it, she’d stop out of embarrassment and Rose didn’t want that to happen. Their relationship was in a weird, strained place, stuck between friends and something more. They shared heated looks, and even a few kisses that could have been more, but Alma still went on dates with a skinny private who was so young he had acne and his face turned red when he tried to hold Alma’s hand. Rose hated him on principle alone. Rose smiled, lopsided and cocky because Alma liked it when she smiled like that. Alma still hadn’t responded to Rose’s question; she simply stood there, biting her lip as her eyes grew darker and her face flushed with heat. Rose took a small step toward her, just enough to let Alma see her interest, but not enough to push. “You wanna go clean up first? Or is Phillip waiting for you?” Alma shook her head, a confused almost smile on her lips. “No date tonight. I…” A thrill bloomed inside her and Rose took another careful step forward. “You…what?” Alma took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked Rose right in the eyes. “I want to spend the evening with you.” Her bluster faded a bit and she hastily added, “If that’s what you want, I mean.” Rose nodded, and even though she could feel her head bobbling like a doll at a carnival, she couldn’t stop herself. “Yes, I definitely want.” All Lethe Press books, including Thunder of War, Lightning of Desire, are available through the major online retailers and booksellers. You can also support the press and authors by buying directly from our website.
Every Thursday, Lethe takes a look through its vaults for its proudest releases. This week it's Minions of the Moon by Richard Bowes, a gay-classic-in-waiting described as "a terrific piece of storytelling" by Neil Gaiman and "powerful fiction" by Charles De Lint. Even better, Minions of the Moon is just $9 for the paperback all week at the Lethe website. Read an excerpt from Minions of the Moon or listen to a preview of the audiobook: My name is Kevin Grierson. If this were a twelve-step program for mortals haunted by doppelgängers, I would stand up now and say, “Hi. My name is Kevin. I’m fifty-four and I’ve been stalked by my own Shadow for as long as I can remember.” Then you’d say hello and we’d exchange stories. In fact, I long ago learned to see my Shadow as the embodiment of my addiction, my will to self-destruction. The wise man who taught me to do that also showed me how to stay aware of the one he called my Silent Partner without dwelling on him. After long mastery of that high-wire act, I grew confident, even, God help me, proud. Then the other night, I saw a kid get on a streetcar in Boston over forty years ago. The sight gave me pause, made me wonder if my time of grace was running out. And in that moment of uncertainty, I felt my Shadow close in. I’d had a warning a week or two ago when Gina Raille, an old friend, said she had seen a guy around who looked like he might be my evil twin. But I had other things on my mind and things like this happened every once in a while. Not until last Saturday night and Sunday afternoon was I shown signs I could not ignore. A toy merry-go-round on Ozzie Klackman’s work table was the first of those. Other business had brought me to his blowsy old apartment slightly above the riot that is Avenue A in August. Ceiling fans rotated. Decades worth of East Sixth Street curry hung in the air. Sirens wailed in the East Village. A boombox car bounced sound off the buildings. “LOCK UP THE FUCKING BANJA BOYS!” yelled a hoarse voice, a woman, or maybe a drag. Ozzie, red faced and unshaven in paint-stained shorts and T-shirt, said, “You tell ’em, honey,” and drained a tumbler of fruit juice and vodka. Then he went back to demonstrating a Chatty Cathy. “I reworked it for this rich fetishist down in Pennsylvania.” Cathy still had her dippy smile. But now instead of inane talking-doll phrases, she uttered a string of obscenities in her dippy little voice. “It’s costing him plenty,” said Ozzie self-righteously, like overcharging the guy made him an agent of justice. Every trade has its skullduggers, resurrectionists, procurers. Old toys is no exception. Ozzie Klackman is all those things and more. It’s why I had business with him. Years of cruising and of buying antiques have taught me to nod, smile, and look with bland indifference at what interests me. The carousel was worn, wooden, American-made by my guess. The condition was better than I would have expected in a toy that old. The detail work too, with each horse a firebreathing stallion, and the decorative motif of smiling suns and frowning moons was suspiciously bright. Not one of Klackman’s master forgeries. But it was its accuracy that made the hair on my neck stand up. To paint this, Klackman must have seen the real one as I had. He stopped talking. When I looked up, his small clever eyes were on me, measuring my reaction. “You saw the original?” he asked. “I did. Years ago out in East Asshole, New Jersey. I was working for Augie Dolbier and he heard about this merry-go-round for sale. So he took me along and we barged right in. Real creepy scene. Like it was some kind of con game or rip-off. The carousel was the lure. The ones who had it weren’t interested in selling. Not to us. Recently I got reminded. I took this old beat-up toy and did it from memory.” He waited like he expected me to ask questions. But I cultivate an attitude of professional disinterest and right then I was preoccupied with the present. “I’ve had a long day,” I told him and turned to go. “Sorry I haven’t been to see George,” Ozzie said. My partner, George Halle, was at Cabrini Hospice in a terminal coma. I indicated the visit wasn’t necessary. At the door, I handed him fifty dollars in tens and said, “Here’s your retainer. You’ll be at Masby’s Monday at eleven sharp, right? And you know what I want you to do?” “Don’t worry, Kevin me lad,” he said in a Long John Silver voice. “Nighty night.” Downstairs, yuppie couples scuttled home with Sunday papers and Kim’s videos. Over on Second Avenue, old guys with hats and cigars hung around newsstands eternally waiting for that final Brooklyn Dodgers score and a few hookers still operated in the shadow of the St. Mark’s-in-the-Bowery baptistery. But mainly it was kids. From New Jersey and the Bronx, by car and subway, they were outfitted like 1950s nerds, like cybersluts and MTV stars, in shorts and baseball caps, miniskirts and high heels, striped boxers and sneakers, souvenir T-shirts and envelope-shaped bell jeans, sporting crew cuts, beaded pigtails, wisps of Day-Glo green and blue hair that caught the streetlight like glaucoma auras. I walked through them, middle age making me as invisible as a ghost at a tropical carnival. It amazed me that with everyone out of town for the weekend, the city could still be so crowded. A bus rolled downtown. That summer they displayed Calvin Klein ads on their sides. Each was a row of photos of the same well-defined young man clad only in various undershorts. His expression varied from defiant, to dazed, to blank. It looked like the draft physical for the clone wars. Actually getting force-stripped is disturbing, not sexy, a subspecies of rape, as I could testify. Fantasy, though, is something else. Klein’s genius is the exploitation of hustler poses, and August in New York gives everyone a horny itch. Normally I satisfied that itch through safe, clean call services. Ozzie and his carousel had me thinking about the past when I stopped to pick up The Times. Just then, I noticed what looked like any club boy in his early twenties. His slightly glazed eyes met mine and held. The kid was for rent. Then his face lighted slightly. “Fred?” he asked. And I understood the kid had dealt with my Shadow. Chilled but curious, I replied, “I have been. You and Fred are friends?” He indicated they were. I took the bait. Negotiations were fast. We were both pros. I said what I wanted and made an offer. He agreed and gave his name as Matt. I stuck with Fred, which had served my Shadow and me well enough in the past. When we got to my place on Seventeenth Street, Stuyvesant Park across the way was still unlocked. Beneath the new moon, dogs and people moved under the lamp-lit trees, sat on benches waiting for love. My building was quiet. Everyone else in the co-op is middle-aged too. My apartment is on the third floor and comfortable. On the living-room mantel I have assembled an antique toy zoo, animals behind bars, visitors pointing their articulated metal arms, an expensive whimsy. “The Heineken’s is cold.” I opened one for my guest and was not tempted. Once or twice in my past I have been touched by a grace so rare that it carries me through sordid passages and empty years. I sat on the couch. Matt was cute in a dark buzz, shorts, and sneakers. I could remember when having to wear that particular outfit was a sentence to dorkhood. Of course, way back then we didn’t have the option of silver earrings and leg tattoos. Matt swallowed some beer, stood in the center of my living room, and stripped when I asked him to. Ralph Lauren, Gap, Old Navy, Tommy Hilfiger—the layers fell away and revealed how skinny he was. He glanced at my front windows and noticed they were uncurtained. He made an involuntary gesture as if he wanted to cover his crotch and eyes, then thought he shouldn’t. I felt a key turn in my heart even as I knew it was all part of the act. Because of age and scars and a sense of aesthetics, I kept my shirt on. In the bedroom, the air conditioner played on our skin. I stroked his hair, which was as short and smooth as I imagine an otter’s to be. He smelled of smoke and booze, Obsession and sweat, the scent of nightlife. Wings were tattooed over his left nipple, a snake wound up his right calf. Then we got down to business and for a time, with my cock being licked and tickled, my hand on another’s head, my mind sailed free with not a thought of who he was or who I was or what were the circumstances of this happening. It was like being a kid again. To work completely, commodity sex should be emotionally self-contained and anonymous. Too much involvement makes that impossible. Matt had aroused my curiosity. And my empathy. Never underestimate a doppelgänger’s subtlety. This kid evoked my past. When he got up and went in the bathroom, I looked through his clothes. Except for the sneakers, they had all been bought or boosted that day. Tomorrow if all went well for him, these clothes would be in the trash and he’d have a new outfit. He carried no wallet, seven dollars in change, a couple of pills I couldn’t identify, and slips of paper, most with names and numbers, one with just a Hell’s Kitchen address. In a small shoulder bag he had underwear and socks, Vaseline, polyurethane and latex condoms, plastic gloves, dental and tongue dams, skin salve, and nonoxynol-9. My guess was that these were all his possessions. When he was ready to leave, I gave him a card. The name and number of my shop were on the front and my name and home phone number were on the back. “Call me soon.” He nodded as I would once have done. “Since you used the name Fred, you must have met my imaginary friend,” I remarked. He gave me a look that said my Shadow was at least as real as I was. Then the kid was gone. And since nothing of any consequence was on my answering machine, I lay down on the bed and started leafing through The Times. The next thing I remember was a kid getting on a Boston streetcar. An ordinary enough child, blond and small, a very young twelve, he walked like he was wary of being hit. He sat at the back of the car and turned his face toward the window. Someone once said that when the Irish get hurt they stay hurt. He might have had in mind something like the way that kid moved and avoided eye contact. The last streetcars in New York ran long before I arrived here. But deep in the night, I started awake. The Week in Review and Arts and Entertainment sections fell on the floor and it seemed as if I’d just heard a trolley bell clang at the end of my block. All Lethe Press books, including Minions of the Moon, are available through the major online retailers and booksellers. You can also support the press and authors by buying directly from our website. If listening is more your thing, you can buy the unabridged audiobook at Amazon or Audible.
|
Lethe PressWhat's new with Lethe Press... Archives
June 2020
Categories
All
|